


Smile

by damagedpickle



Series: Prompt Fills [6]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Art, Deaf Clint Barton, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, Imprisonment, Language Barrier, Loki (Marvel) Needs a Hug, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Prisoner Loki (Marvel), Slow Burn, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Torture, Unreliable Narrator, Whump
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-27
Updated: 2021-01-31
Packaged: 2021-03-10 08:00:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 11,973
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27669889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/damagedpickle/pseuds/damagedpickle
Summary: Loki returns to Asgard after his failed invasion, only to be sentenced to imprisonment in the Avenger's custody. Stripped of his seidr, he already dreads the sentence, but it is only made worse when he realises not only has he lost his seidr, he has also lost his AllSpeak.
Relationships: Loki/Tony Stark
Series: Prompt Fills [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1802845
Comments: 201
Kudos: 314





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DarkWrittenWords](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarkWrittenWords/gifts).



> Prompt fill for DarkWrittenWords: Loki is sentenced to live with the Avengers, but loses his seidr and thus AllSpeak- cue language barrier (I'm just paraphrasing here, but that's the gist of it)
> 
> Feel free to leave any suggestions down below because I don't really know where I'm going with this.
> 
> Edited 17/12/20 to change the integration of the language barrier.

Loki has always rather enjoyed the Midgardian concept of a soul. Having an innate part of your spiritual being located within you is a rather appealing philosophy, particularly for ones so limited by lifespan. As he lies curled in upon himself on the frigid tiles of his cell, he finds himself beginning to understand the idea more intimately than he ever would have liked to; the current vacancy within him feeling rather akin to how he imagines the sensation of having one's soul ripped from their body. In a way, he supposes his soul has been torn from him, his seidr is so inherently a part of him its loss would most certainly at least be comparable to the loss of a limb. A part of him suggests that he is lucky it is only a metaphorical limb he has lost; it could have easily been his life. It certainly was not beyond the scope of reason to envision Odin seizing this most convenient opportunity to dispose of his wayward son. Loki had actually been rather pleasantly surprised when the sentence had been announced. Perhaps the foolish man still held some fantastical illusion of a repentant and reformed Loki reigning dutifully over Jotunheim, forever compliant with the every whim of the might AllFather. 

Ha. That ship had long ago left the harbour and drowned itself at sea. Nonetheless, Odin had not been deterred by the irrationality of his thoughts, sentencing Loki to exile in Midgard to be guarded and minded by those who had defeated him. _The Avengers._ What a ridiculous name; he was almost certain it was the obnoxious one- Stark- who had come up with it. What other insufferable names would he be forced to endure throughout the period of his imprisonment? In just three short days he had already had numerous, presumably unflattering, nicknames thrust upon him- the thought of more was rather unwelcome. 

_It could have been your_ _head._

Inwardly, Loki grimaces at the thought. Executions in Asgard are less than pleasant; rarely short and never sweet. The dungeons themselves are... unappealing to say the very least. He knows he is lucky to be receiving a chance at freedom, this is what he must focus on; the future he has been given, rather than the past he has escaped. Even if the tiles are just as hard as last time, the stone walls just as confining. It doesn't matter, he tells himself, in mere days he will be gone. 

He could have sworn he was once a convincing liar.

* * *

By the time of his departure, his condition has significantly worsened; when he reaches the daylight his eyes cry out in pain. Polished gold does tend to be rather reflective, and it seems intent on directing as many glistening beams into his weakened eyes. There is a shove from behind him, dropping him to his knees, though it was entirely unnecessary- it would do him no good to aggravate the AllFather while his punishment is incomplete. He musters what little resolve remains after his stint in the dungeons-he has no real concept of how long he spent stuck within those walls, his head- to meet the perfect blue eye looking down at his dishevelled self. He compels himself to hold the eye contact, swearing to not duck and hide like a coward. With so little left, he will take what dignity he can. 

"AllFather, you are looking positively radiant today."

Odin, King of the Nine Realms, does not bat an eye, his brow does not crease. Loki will not deny the sting his passivity brings. Here he kneels, having committed atrocities against not one, but two realms, and he remains unworthy of even the slightest acknowledgement. How he ever fooled himself into believing that Odin's attention could ever have been his is a mystery. 

"The prisoner is to be accompanied to the Bifrost, where he shall be passed into the custody of the Midgardian war-heroes, the Avengers. He is not be left unaccompanied until his transfer is secure, is this understood?"

As he refuses still to break contact with Odin, he can only assume the guards have nodded, bowed or saluted in affirmation. The parade of guards is unnecessary, he does not plan to resist, let alone escape, but he also knows that is not their only purpose. There is a reason he has been brought out, trimmed in chains and escorted so prominently. He is to be a warning, an example, a deterrent. Most likely, Loki knows the general public will have no clue the details of his true sentence, but the symbolism will be there.

The guards begin to drag him to his feet, and Loki realises he is yet to finished with the AllFather.

"Is that all you have to say, Father-dear? No final words of endearment and heart to your youngest son? Why this could be our final audience, it would be a shame to leave on such cold-"

A gloved hand muffles his final words, pulling him silently from the room. Upholding his oath until the end, his eyes do not leave Odin's apathetic gaze. As the throne room's doors close on him for what is perhaps the last time, cool metal is placed against his lips. As though the chains and the absence of his seidr are insufficient, his words must be stolen as well. The leather bit attached to the uru frame breaches his lips, the dry, sweaty taste filling his mouth. Loki loathes the muzzle most of all, not merely because of its ability to revoke his final defence, but the symbolism of it. Uru is such a rare metal, it is almost incomprehensible that the AllFather should have a glorified gag constructed from it; but when the perfect fit to Loki's jaw and the additional seidr-suppressing qualities, its purpose is plain to see. Odin has been awaiting this day for many a century. 

Oh well. The closure is nice.

The golden stairs outside the palace burn the bottoms of his feet, reflecting the shining sun above. As in the throne room, Loki endeavours to keep his head held high, eyes fixed directly ahead. Though he longs to maintain his illusion of strength, the churning emptiness inside him drags his vigour down. Besides, he does not think he can bear to realise the number of people getting a glimpse at his humiliation. If he were a better man, he would admit that a part of him deserves it. The gravel of the streets is substantially cooler than the simmering stairs, though the miniature rocks seem to take every opportunity to embed themselves into his exposed feet. At least the Avengers should reside indoors for a majority of the time; he can't imagine he'll get the chance to experience the outdoors any time in the next century, he might as well enjoy the fresh air while it is available to him. 

Surprisingly, it is the walk down the Bifrost with which he struggles the most. The surface itself is not problematic- rather the most comfortable so far- but the sight that greets him either side of the rainbow bridge draws the creeping tendrils of anxiety to wrap around his chest. It is impressive to see the Bifrost was repaired so quickly, though he knows it has only hastened the already superficial court proceedings leading to his charge. He remembers the ruined, brittle bridge, smashed by his golden shadow's noble actions. And he remembers the fall, the never-ending drop into madness and darkness and emptiness. It was almost like a dream, the things he saw, but the kind of dream that comes when one's body is riddled with illness, feverish and depraved of any common sense. How he wishes it were but a dream. 

His wish does not come true. 

Instead, here he is, shoved uncouthly to the ground, sprawled out like a broken poppet. He doesn't bother listening to the guards discuss his fate with Heimdal, he knows it well enough. The only thing he bothers to register is the swirling of familiar fluorescent light and the heavy thud as he lands face down on the ground, bound hands preventing him from steadying his fall. When he manages to pick his weary body up from the ground, he is greeted with the sight of five Avengers, Thor excluded, standing before him. The Hawk has his bow drawn, arrow aimed straight for his skull as the Widow roughly rips the muzzle off of him. Loki is almost tempted to goad the Hawk into firing. Almost. The guards announce the terms of his imprisonment and despite all common sense, he ignores their ramblings. He appears to be in the lounge room of Stark Tower, the very same one in which he tossed the irritating one out of the window. An interesting choice for the transfer, Loki will give them that. Once the guards leave in another dazzling display of light, the Captain seizes his already confined arms and pulls him towards a steel contraption he believes is called an elevator. All of the present Avengers follow them inside, crowding the already small space nicely. He tries to congratulate them on their excellent coordination skills, but his jest fails to illicit his intended response. Instead, all he receives are dumb glares. He repeats himself. 

"Excellent planning, it is almost possible for me to breathe."

It is the bearded one, Stark, who speaks up first. Yet he cannot decipher a fraction of it, the words blurring together in a menagerie of sounds. 

And that is when Loki comes to an extremely worrying conclusion. It is not just his seidr that has been stripped from his body. It is his AllSpeak as well. 

They have absolutely no clue what he is saying, nor he they.

This may yet prove to be a rather large concern.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone read the first chapter of this before this chapter came out, I've altered the way I'm showing the language barrier, thanks to Marinett for the feedback on the last chapter! From now on, I simply won't be writing dialogue Loki can't understand, merely stating that the other character spoke.

Unfortunately for Loki, the Avengers are not as quick to realise the root of their communication issue as he is. As far as he can tell- which is not a lot, since he is merely interpreting their body language- they seem to believe his sudden lack of English to be entirely his fault, a rather ironic fact given they are indirectly responsible for his sentence and thus current lack of seidr. With no way to convey the reality of the situation to the pigheaded mortals, however, Loki resigns himself to their extremely visible irritation each time he fails to understand them or replies in Asgardian. For the first few minutes, he revels in their ire, living up to his status as the Mischief God; but as their ire turns to a cold rage, the situation becomes substantially less amusing. When the Hawk grabs his jaw roughly and twists, marching him towards a suspiciously small cell situated in the centre of the floor the elevator has opened to, dread seeps into his stomach. When the Widow brings forth the muzzle she so generously ripped off before, the dread flows to the rest of his body. 

"No, no, no- please! I'll be quiet, I'll be good!"

He's not sure what good he thinks begging will achieve, especially as they cannot understand his words, but he pleads and shakes his head, hoping it will be enough for them to put that horrid piece of metal away out of his sight.

Stark says something presumably snide or scathing, the rest of the Avengers chuckling lowly in response. The Captain now cuffs his hands behind him and the Widow reattaches the muzzle. The door to the cell is opened by an unseen force, and he is dragged rather uncouthly inside. What was the point of him leaving Asgard if he was only to occupy an equally unattractive prison? At least all four walls are solid and provide privacy from the wandering eyes of those outside, he supposed. Sometimes in Asgard Loki used to think some of the guards were there just to enjoy the sight of such dastardly prisoners brought so low, reviling in the power they held just from the ability to watch them at their most vulnerable moments. At least here he could pretend to be alone- not that he had missed the cameras situated in all corners of the room. 

The room itself is acceptable, a cot in one corner, a toilet and sink in another- much the same as in Asgard. There is little else, but it is nothing he did not anticipate. He goes to lie down on the bed, some sleep would do his weary body much good, but the copious amounts of metal constricting his body ward it off. Surely, they release the chains when they deliver his food. He can wait until then, whenever that may be. Meal times in Asgard were irregular, at the whim of the guards. With such little change between the prisons, he assumes Midgard will be much the same. He is entirely at his jailers' mercy, and he has done little to deserve it. 

Time in his prison passes slowly, if he had to make a judgement on it. He couldn't be certain, with no way of actually tracking its passing, but if he were to guess, he would say he could feel it dragging by, as if burdened by the same shackles he himself wore. By the time something resembling food arrives, the lights have been dimmed once- he assumes this would correspond to at least eight hours. His meal is accompanied by not only the Captain, but the Hawk, the Widow and Stark, only the Green Beast absent. Part of him considers it amusing that they would consider him a threat so restrained, the rest of him just wants to be left alone. Solitude is a trustworthy companion. 

The Captain cautiously places the tray bearing his meal on the cot, before ducking quickly back to the safety of his posse. Silence hangs in the space between them, thick and heavy with incommunicable feeling. Loki turns his eyes towards the food brought before him, his nose almost wrinkling in disgust. Almost, but for the emptiness sitting inside his stomach. He needs this, and he suspects they know this too. Hunger overriding all protocols for dignity and bargaining, he tilts his trapped jaw forward, a silent plea he prays they understand. 

Fortunately, the Avengers seem in relatively fair spirits, the Widow unclasping both his jaw and hands. He rolls his wrists and jaw, blood flowing freely once more, like water from a dam. He cannot identify a single substance on the metal platter, but it seems rather basic, even by Midgardian standards. Multiple scoops of some half liquid, half solid monstrosities, soaking sticks of orange and some unspecified white meat. Still, sustenance is sustenance; he no longer has the freedom to be selective in his diet. As he begins to eat, he realises his most gracious hosts have failed to provide him with cutlery. Not bothered to attempt any remotely complex communication with them, he picks at it with his fingers, cautious of any surprise time restraints which may be inflicted upon him. After all, his captors seem determined to remain present for the duration of his meal, and he doubts they are overly enthusiastic to be pressed into the small building with him. 

Once the majority of the food has been cleaned from his plate, the Captain presents Loki with a piece of paper containing some sort of written message, entirely illegible to him. He suspects they want an answer on whether or not writing will allow them to converse, so he shakes his head and doesn't move to take it from the Captain's outstretched hands. Stark seems particularly irritated by this news, audibly groaning before marching over to the two himself. Without speaking, he snatches the paper from the Captain and scribbles on the other side a particularly large eye. He gestures crudely to the cameras Loki had already noticed before, then again to the looming eye, clearly outlining their purpose of surveillance. While it was an unnecessary use of Stark's time, he could understand why they felt the need to do it. 

Nonetheless, Loki would rather be left to his own thoughts and rest. The constant uncertainty the group invoked in him was rather exhausting. 

"Will there be anything else? Or may I return to my sleep?"

As he had expected, the Hawk's face flares up in anger, obviously still suspicious of the language barrier between them. Well, since there was nothing he could do to change his mind, he might as well make the best of the situation. To add insult to injury, he added his most benevolent grin, watching with glee as both the Hawk and Captain's frowns deepen. In the blink of an eye, the Hawk had taken the muzzle and pressed it up against Loki's mouth again, forcing the sweaty, leather bit back inside his mouth. Instantly, what little flavour had been in his meagre meal vanished. 

One day, he would learn to recognise the point at which he should surrender. That day was not anytime soon, however, long far off in an unforeseen future.

His utter hatred of the muzzle must have been written neatly across his face, bringing amusement to his unwelcome audience. His hands this time were chained in front of him, allowing for some small maneuverability and grip, an incredibly thoughtful act by Earth's most noble heroes. 

With a final threatening glare, the group walked out the cell, Stark bringing up the rear. As the doors slid shut behind them, the Iron Man gave him a rather perplexing wink, before disappearing behind a screen of metal. 

Back to isolation, back to normality. 

The room seemed larger, without the overbearing presence of the Avengers. Without their imposing and sensitive egos, there was suddenly vast and empty space aplenty. Yet there was also room within his stomach, insufficiently filled by the slop served to him. And the space behind his eyes ached, dry and tired from his insomnia. Every time he lay down to rest, the muzzle dug into his jaw and the cuffs into his wrists, permanent reminders of just how far he had fallen.

At least here, imprisoned by mere mortals, unable to converse with a single soul, he had nowhere lower to fall. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am back! Thank you for all your lovely comments and kudos, they mean so much to me! A thank you to StrugglingGay for helping me edit this chapter, and bullying me into writing more. Lemme know what you think and feel free to leave any suggestions or predictions, I love seeing where you guys think this is headed.

To Loki's surprise, Stark returned rather soon following his perplexing winking, completely alone and unannounced. Of course, there wasn't really any way for Stark to announce himself given Loki's current... situation, but the sentiment of having some structure or schedule would have been nice, even if it had just been essentially gibberish. From the instant the man walked into the cell, he was spouting nonsense, blathering inanely and waving about what Loki believed to be a smartphone- a modern Midgardian communication device. After fiddling about with the rather bright screen for a few moments, Stark promptly reached behind Loki, undoing the clasp of the loathsome muzzle. Naturally, there seemed to be some sort of price to the unexpected gesture, as Stark then began gesturing at Loki to speak.

Clearly, the fall out the window had done to the mortal a substantial amount of chronic brain damage.

But Stark was insistent, even though he quite obviously was not comprehending a word Loki spoke to him. So, with absolutely nothing better to do inside his desolate cell, Loki decided to indulge the delusional man.

"I would like to state, once more for emphasis, that this is a ridiculously pointless endeavour." Stark gave no reaction to his words specifically, so he continued. "I haven't the faintest idea what you want of me, so I will simply give you the answer for which I am sure some part of you is longing. The reason you cannot understand me is because my seidr has been stripped from my body, and with it, my AllSpeak." Once again, the man remained entirely oblivious to the rather important information Loki was bestowing upon him, proving even more so the fruitlessness of the one-sided conversation he was holding. Yet Stark motioned once more for him to continue, smirking in a way which somehow managed to be both severely irritating and endearing simultaneously. 

"I must say, it is nice to have a willing audience; it has been quite some time since I conversed with one actually interesting in hearing me speak." He gave the obligatory glance to the muzzle, the most pertinent example of his fate. Long before he had fallen from grace, the Aesir had grown tired of his forked tongue. Long ago had they used the same statement as the Avengers did now to express their loathing of his words. "I have long desired a friend with whom I might openly speak, but Asgard is not the place for such company. The art of persuasion has been long discarded in favour of brute force and blind obedience." Loki was generous with his words, for there was nowhere for them to go. There was no way for Stark to process anything he spoke of, so he might as well forgo small talk and alleviate his boredom in a meaningful manner. 

So on and on went Loki, delving into his rather introverted childhood and disjunction with his peers, court, people.

And to his surprise, Tony appeared to listen.

He showed absolutely no recognition of the words which Loki spoke, his reactions completely out of time and inappropriately toned, but the entire time he did not look away or interrupt. Despite the complete lack of input from the man, their 'conversation', so to speak, had been... nice.

When he finally lost his momentum, Stark gave Loki what he suspected to be some sort of farewell and fiddled with his smartphone for a final time. He gave his infuriating smirk again, before leaving Loki lonesome once more.

He wondered when Stark would be coming back.

* * *

By Loki's best estimates, it had now been approximately three days since he'd been visited by any of the Avengers. While he had been thankfully relieved of the muzzle by Stark, he had had no opportunity to make use of the fact, with no food nor company presented to him since Stark's unanticipated drop-in. And while his Aesir body was certainly robust enough to withstand even years on almost nothing, Loki was still rather opposed to the pangs of hunger that had been emanating from his stomach with increasing frequency. In short, he was beginning to grow quite ravenous. It was not a new experience for him, not by a considerable amount, but still unpleasant in the extreme, particularly when he was stranded without any sort of distraction from his starvation.

So, when the door to his cell opened to reveal the Hawk bearing what appeared to be a plate of food, Loki was initially both receptive and relieved by the archer's arrival. He even went as far to nod politely in acknowledgement of the other's presence, eager to appease the man holding such an obvious symbol of his fate.

The Hawk, however, dispelled any pretence of pleasantries immediately.

Rather than offering up the plate he carried, he first moved to replace the muzzle Stark had so carelessly discarded during his visit, securing it tightly round the god's skull. Really, had he the energy or time to ponder the man's actions in the moment, it should have been Loki's first indicator something was deeply amiss. But as the Hawk tossed the plate, which Loki believed to bear a sandwich, into the sink, Loki had no thoughts for anything other than the gnawing hunger which had flared up at the prospect of eating. Unfortunately, this meant he was well and truly distracted when the knife sunk into the tender flesh of his abdomen. 

Begrudgingly, Loki had to admit that as the metal had pierced his skin, he had been incredibly grateful for the foul bit of leather shoved into his mouth; it had undoubtedly saved him from almost biting off his own tongue in shock.

Once he had recovered from his initial surprise, he managed to glance up to meet the Hawk, ensuring his eyes glowered with every curse he could not verbally bestow upon the man. Like Stark, the Hawk smirked back at him, however, his was a smirk of utter loathing and malice.

Loki supposed it was only natural the Hawk would still bear such a strong grudge against him, he had stripped the man bare and rearranged all he found to his own liking. It was quite unfortunate Loki was unable to communicate just how much he understood his fury, that he knew exactly what it was to be remade. Alas, his hands were tied and his tongued was glued to his mouth. Because of this, the Hawk was able to stab him twice more without even a shred of resistance. And yet, despite the vulnerability with which Loki was confined, the three wounds seemed to inexplicably be the archer's limit. Instead of inflicting further harm upon the god's bound and exposed body, the Hawk began to hastily replace Loki's ruined garments with fresh ones, even going as far to momentarily undo the shackles binding his hands together in order to ensure each article was secured correctly. A thin bandage, made from some plastic-like substance was placed over each of his wounds; insufficient to provide any sort of pressure, but enough to trap the blood flowing from each gushing gash in his skin.

By the time he was freshly dressed, his body had begun to properly respond to the abrasions spotted across his body, causing them to swell and ache profusely. As best as he could with the muzzle still in place, he groaned, the pain too intense to be silenced. It appeared the knife had gone deeper than he had originally perceived, the sharp throbbing continuing well inside of him. 

Throughout the entire ordeal, however, the Hawk was silent, refusing to vent even the fire within his eyes. It only served to humble Loki further, pushing him deeper into the shell he was slowly formulating around himself, a bitter cold sending him softly to an endless sleep. When the archer was finally done breaking him down, gesturing incomprehensibly at his fallen prey. Loki knew it was the Midgardian communication form for the deaf and mute, but still, without his AllSpeak, the intricate series of movements were just as meaningless as any words the man could have spoken. Still, the blatant rage upon the Hawk's face, coupled with the triple stabbing and the pointed middle finger which Loki did recognise all leant towards some series of threats, taunts or insults.

With a final flash of his blood-stained knife, the Hawk departed, taking whatever hope Loki had held for his current circumstances with him. 

* * *

Just a day later, had any of the Avengers bothered to check the numerous camera's they had installed in Loki's cell, they would have shown him trying, and failing to get water through the iron grip of his muzzle, a stale sandwich sitting tantalisingly on the floor beside him. Would have shown him knelt down, silently giving in to nonexistent demands and pleading wordlessly with an unresponsive camera.

But as Loki concluded a day later, when he remained undisturbed, no one had seen even a moment of his fragility.

Somehow, this knowledge did not bring the relief it should have. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi all, thank you again for all your wonderful comments! 
> 
> I have a favour to ask- for school I have to complete a major project, and mine is on representation in film. If any of you have the time to complete my survey on the topic, it would be much appreciated!
> 
> https://forms.gle/X31phevuATp285Lt7
> 
> Thank you again, and enjoy the chapter!

Only a day after his shameful breakdown, Loki is blessed with a visit from Stark. Blessed, only in the sense that the man once again releases him from the vice grip of his muzzle, allowing him to dash frantically to the tap, greedily guzzling down precious mouthful of fresh water. Thankfully, Stark seems unperturbed by his desperate behaviour, merely setting down the same smartphone on the bed, kicking off his shoes as he makes himself comfortable in Loki's bed. 

A peculiar mortal indeed. 

When Loki joins the man on the bed, four-day-old sandwich in hand, he notices Stark appears to have greatly decline in health since his last visit, with dark smiles beneath his eyes and pale, sweaty skin. The man looks haunted, though by what, Loki cannot guess. After all, should he not be safe within his own home?

Despite his ill health, Stark's spirit remains jovial, offering Loki a great number of playful quips the god cannot understand. To his disappointment, he once again can only give back a sad smile, his words still nothing but gibberish to the chattering figure before him. Eventually, Stark seems to have said his piece, gesturing for Loki to take up their queer, one-sided conversation. 

Loki almost goes to vent his humiliations at the man, vent his utter frustration at being left helpless during the Hawk's attack, but his mood prevents him from doing so. He finds himself much to amused at Stark's oddness to ruin the unusual repartee between them. And besides, it would do no good to discuss events of which they were both fully aware.

"Did you know, Stark, that I was not sentenced for months after my arrival on Asgard? The court was unsure if the BiFrost would ever be sufficiently repaired for use, so they were tragically forced to postpone my trial. Several times." Stark, as usual, sat oblivious to his words, nodding away at irrelevant intervals and sporadically checking his smartphone at some unknown signal. "But do not be alarmed, I was not, as you would say, 'off the hook' for those long months; the dungeons of Asgard are spacious at all times of the year. Whether this is because of some unfathomably low crime rate, or the tendency of the court to sentence most criminals of lesser birth to death or exile, I am not permitted to say. It would be blasphemy, after all, and I am a loyal Aesir at heart." 

A low laugh built in Loki's chest, a private humour at his own joke. As expected, Stark was perplexed by his sudden tittering, but surprisingly, after a moment's pause, he began to join in, laughing lightly at the secret joke. Once their spirits had settled, Loki remembered the sandwich beside him and began slowly picking at it, careful to avoid to intermittent patches of mould scattered throughout both the bread and filling. After a few horrid bites of the partially rotten thing, he looked up to Stark, silently asking whether or not more speaking would be required of him. 

However, their conversation seemed to be the least of Stark's concerned, as he stared with almost outrage at the spoiled sandwich Loki was tearing apart before him. With an unexpected amount of ire in his eyes, Stark snatched the plate from his hands and promptly stormed out of the cell, metal doors closing solemnly behind him.His disgust had been evident, but Loki felt his reaction was completely unjustified. True, it had been rather impolite of him to eat such a vile thing in company, but he could not risk the muzzle being replaced before he next ate. Surely Stark understood his hunger? Had he not seen Loki left unfed for the past four- no, five?- days? Mortals would never cease to amaze him; their intricacies inherently paradoxical. 

Already missing his abomination of a sandwich, Loki returned to the sink. If he could not eat, he would at least take advantage of his unmuzzled state. Though Stark had left his mouth free last time, his contradictory behaviour did not lend itself to consistencies. It was best he did not bank on the man as a token of stability, lest he gamble and loose too much. 

Half-way through what had to be his tenth mouthful of water, the sliding doors opened to reveal Stark returned, ceramic bowl in hand. 

Loki almost spat water onto his cell floor in shock.

Gingerly, he took the bowl Stark offered with an outstretched hand, examining its contents closely. The food- he assumed it must be food, that Stark would not be _that_ cruel- was unfamiliar to him, rested in what seemed to be a bed of milk. If he had to guess, it looked to be a type of grain, though why some of them were so artificially coloured he could not determine. Nonetheless, his stomach growled impatiently at him, so he gripped the spoon tight and began shovelling the miracle into his mouth as fast as he could without choking. When he did inevitably fail to swallow, Stark patted him on the back, causing Loki to almost lean into the well-meaning touch. He was forced to remind himself of all the reasons he resented the mortal, remind himself that Stark had blatantly ignored him during his most desperate hour. 

At the end of it all, however, he could not deny how nice it had felt to have just that brief moment of contact- he would not be so pathetic as to call it affection. He would not.

* * *

Once Stark had left, collected his data and disappeared from the room, Loki was at a loss for what to do with himself. Stark had mercifully left him unchained and unmuzzled, so he had shoved down what hunger remained after Stark's gift with blissfully cool water. With his hands free again, he had finally been able to clean some of the blood from his stomach using his sink, but had been able to do little else to lessen the grime steadily coating his entire body. And his hair-

So long as it looks even close to as awful as it feels, he does not wish to see it. 

Listlessly, he wanders round and round his cell, praying to the Norns for some alleviation of his boredom. 

Remarkably, they answer his prayer, the metal doors opening only minutes after he sank half-heartedly to his knees and knelt beside his bed. When he thinks upon it, he suspects it is the first prayer he has ever had answered.

Another surprise; it is neither Stark nor the Hawk who emerges, instead, the stoic Captain, head held high and chest puffed with pride. And yet, he seats himself on the floor almost immediately upon entering the cell. From some sort of satchel, he pulls a book of parchments and case of brightly coloured pencils.

It must be a Midgardian thing, Loki decides, the vibrant, false colours.

The Captain opens the parchments to the first page, where a crude caricature of Loki has been drawn holding one of the pencils on the floor in front of him. With the pencil, he appears to be drawing- what exactly, Loki cannot decipher. But the meaning is clear; the Captain wishes him to draw his words.

The idea is... sound. So long as his messages do not become too abstract, he should be able draw with passable talent.

Thoughtfully, Loki snatches one of the pencils from the case, scribbling hastily beneath himself the first idea in his mind; a hairbrush. The Captain watches him draw, a faint look of understanding on his face. Just in case, for Loki truly is worried for the future of his hair, he tugs at his knotted locks, emphasising their disastrous state. The Captain progresses to a confident nod, before leaving Loki alone with his newly acquired possessions. With no way of knowing what the Captain will make of his request, Loki leaves the matter alone, doodling idly on the parchment instead. As the hours wile themselves away, his distracted strokes turn themselves into an image. A single child lying alone amidst a rapidly growing pile of snow, eyes bleeding crimson, as if the child is shedding tears of blood. As Loki meet's the red with his own verdant eyes, he feels the icy snow trickling down his body, the picture like a portal. When his cell drops to temperatures well below his tolerance, he retreats to the safety of his bed, ensuring the cover of the book is closed over the winter hellscape. 

The next time he awakens, there is a blue hairbrush sitting on the side of his sink, a lonely beacon amongst the sparse reality of his room. With the greatest care, he takes the brush to his hair, painstakingly working out every knot. When he can finally run the brush across his scalp without hitting a snag, he falls to the ground in relief, replacing the brush with his fingers. Head free, he calls the courage to confront the book once more from deep inside him.

Perhaps the mortals simply need some directions. They are only human, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> edit: I did some art  
>  [ art](Frostiron%20Playlist</a>https://damagedpickle.tumblr.com/post/641691653545082880/for-my-fic-smile-on-ao3)


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *fights with dad* *listens to frostiron playlist* *realises mistake* *cries harder*
> 
> [ Frostiron Playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/3t2lj5yLjosmZ6YiO3FMPJ?si=Fp0NeBy7RgeR7GpO4a_olg)
> 
> Feel free to share any suggestions :)

Thanks to the aid of his parchment, Loki's boredom had been substantially alleviated. Though it was true he had never been a particularly talented artist, producing even the most mediocre of sketches had proved a rather enthralling method of passing the stagnant time of his captivity. Using the Captain's method, he had begun to build up his requests, pushing with each picture his rights as a conquered convict. Already, he had acquired a strange water-skin made from plastic, some circular elastics for his hair the Widow had rather awkwardly explained to him and a quite ingenious Midgardian invention which used rotating blades to cool the air and direct it towards wherever was most desperately in need of it. Upon reflection, he was rather embarrassed by the childlike wonder he had expressed at the machine, the substantial period of time he had spent giddily pushing at the different settings available to him. He could not deny, however, the immense relief the cool air had been to his Jotun physiology. The mortals had heated his cell to an unbearable temperature, which he had initially suspected to an intentional decision designed to discomfort him. But given their willingness to gift him the cooling device, he had now come to the conclusion mortals simply had an extremely limited tolerance for the cold and had assumed the same for him. 

As he was fiddling with his latest request- in his opinion, his most bold to date- he heard the familiar swoosh of his cell doors sliding open. Nervously, he turned to present his plea, praying Stark had come in a merciful temper. He had been expecting Stark for days now, for some unknown reason he had stayed away for much longer than he usually did. 

To his horror, however, it was not Stark who had entered the building. The Hawk had returned, and his expression did not bode well for Loki's barely healed wounds. 

Instantly, his fanciful request was forgotten, parchment dropped to floor and shoved off to the side. He had no wish to be punished for his own brazenness. As he had on his last visit, the Hawk began his pointed gestures once more, Loki still completely ignorant to their meaning. Shaking his head, he hoped to please the Hawk by saving him from his own futile actions, but served only to visibly irritate the archer.

Hands raised in the air placatingly, Loki began to take small steps backwards, both to distance himself from the predator before him and to give himself the small comfort that was a wall against his back. Realistically, he knew his actions did nothing to prevent the archer from harming him, but he was well beyond the realm of realism. Trapped beneath a rock, the only reality he could have was his mind, so that was what he chose to protect. It did not matter that the Hawk was inching forwards towards him, reaching ominously into a cloth bag. The wall was solid against his back, he was safe. No harm would come to him. 

At first, it appeared the man had brought with him a bag of golden buttons smaller, only slightly larger than the nail on Loki's smallest toe. However, when the button flipped over and its pointed tip was revealed, the situation began to make significantly more sense. The man advanced with the tip pointed towards Loki and he could not help but flinch. The tip was in fact rather short, it would not pierce deep enough to damage any of Loki's more vital organs, so he could only imagine the man had some more cruel and unusual intention than he had had during his last visit. 

Before the pin, for that was what Loki assumed the button must be, entered his body, the Hawk paused, dropping the tiny thing back into its bag. He gestured, rather than signed, for Loki to place his hands out before him, allowing his hands to be chained once more. Loki did not resist, simply glad the man was yet to insist on muting him. Satisfied with the cuffs, the pin made an appearance once more, its golden colour an ironic purity in Loki's eyes. He tensed, eyes closed, prepared for his lips, or perhaps his eyes to be pierced by the pin. Surely, his face was the most vulnerable to this particular torture? There were few other locations where any ruinous damage could be dealt to his body, particularly in his clothed state. It was because of this, that the embedding of the pin in his upper arm had come as such a shock to him.

While his thoughts had taken his attention to his exposed face, he had ignored the sensation of the Hawk roughly shoving up his right sleeve and shoving the pin into the soft but toned flesh he found there.

It did not hurt in the way he had anticipated- which was not to say it did not hurt. There was considerable pain, but not the sting he had expected. No, the feeling of the pin pushing through layers of tissue and skin had been uncomfortable and unsettling, not to mention the thick ache it sent through the arm. He could feel a throbbing and a tingling from his shoulder to his fingers, which made it extremely difficult, near impossible, for him to move the arm at all. 

He had chosen well, in choosing the Hawk. As much pain as it was causing him now, he could not help but admire- in a twisted, grim sort of way- the archer's creativity. Such a skill was rather lacking on Asgard. 

Gathering the courage to open his eyes, Loki attempted to read his assailant's face. The man was not looking up at him, focused intently on embedding another pin into a slightly lower point on the same arm. Despite the lack of eye contact, however, Loki could still make out the grin on the man's face, presumably brought from Loki's regretfully audible reaction to the foreign and disconcerting sensation of the pin sinking into his flesh. No doubt his cry had only encouraged the man, spurring him on to complete as many piercings as he had pins. Yet, he knew it was useless to prevent himself from expressing his pain. It was in fact likely that if Loki had not reacted, the archer would have pushed him with increasingly invasive pricks until a scream or curse could be wrought from his lips. It was better to at least allow himself the relief of venting the torment as best he could. Gift himself what little he had to give. 

He counts about ten pins, but he knows he's likely missed several. Of course, they're so small, who knows how many might be hidden away in the Hawk's inconspicuous pouch?

When the doors slide shut, when a temporary net of safety stretches out over his cell, Loki collapses onto his cot, trying in vain not to move his arms. Thankfully, in spite of his protesting upper limbs, the pain is sufficient to render him unconscious in moments. 

* * *

Loki awakes to the shuffling of paper and a curious humming. The sound is oddly sentimental to him, reminiscent of his innocence, a picture painted and discarded many centuries before. Opening his eyes, the illusion is shattered and replaced with horror. Legs folded beneath him on the floor sits Stark, holding Loki's notebook open to a page he had truly hoped would never grace the eyes of another.

A page bearing the portrait of a mere babe, lying frozen and alone in the cold. 

And there Stark sat, staring right into the image of Loki's most guarded secret. 

Had he been able to rise without his arms burning in agony, Loki was sure he would have ran to the toilet, desperate to expel the horrid sinking feeling developing in his stomach. As it was, he had been rendered almost immobile, limited to the only the most calculated movements, so he found himself merely coughing and spluttering, close to choking on the bile slowly moving up his oesophagus. 

Eventually, his inability to breathe caught Stark's attention, causing the engineer to break from his wonderful exploration of Loki's intimate soul and help the fallen god to sit up, freeing his airways and allowing him a peaceful exchange of oxygen and carbon dioxide once more. 

"Thank you." Why he bothers to thank the man, Loki is not entirely sure. Stark can understand not a word he speaks, so the interaction is a waste of breath. The words slip out nonetheless.

In response, Stark gestures upwards with both his thumbs, a sign Loki _thinks_ symbolises that all is well. To be cautious, Loki only nods towards the man. Even if he was familiar enough with the Midgardian nonverbal vernacular to reply, his arms are still pinned down by his sides and his hands locked tightly in front of his abdomen. Before him, Stark holds up his book of parchment, finger pointed questioningly at Loki's regretful self-portrait. With a sigh, he realises he has little to gain from lying to Stark- there is in fact a large possibility the Avengers have already been informed of his repulsive heritage. After Stark has lowered the book, and he is able to see the engineer's face, Loki nods for the second time and points to himself. Strangely, the man doesn't push for a conversation, content, for once, to sit in silence. He hasn't even pulled out his phone yet, instead, distracted by the pencils and paper before him.

After a few minutes of a not uncomfortable silence, Stark holds up the book again. For a moment, Loki is forced to still his face into an expressionless mask. Stark's drawing is crude, to say the very least. Next to Loki's passable drawing, the man has added some vaguely anthropomorphic figure with a scribble of brown hair and a pulsing, blue orb in its chest. Stark then grins, pointing to himself triumphantly, assuring Loki the disaster he has just created is indeed an attempted replica of the engineer. Unsure of how to react to the unusual sight before him, Loki forces his chained hands to clap lightly against one another in applause. 

Stark laughs in his strange, cheery way, picking up his pencil and returning to the page. Loki cringes at the thought of Stark desiccating his book of drawings further, but simultaneously watches with intrigue as the man works away, scribbling in earnest. As with before, he holds up his finished product, smile bright and eager as ever. 

It's Loki. He's drawn Loki- or at least, he's attempted to do so. The figure has a yellow helm with a moderate resemblance to him, and a bright green cape that somehow makes Loki nostalgic in a way it has no right to.

Though he wants to scowl at Stark for his horrible rendition of him, his mouth refuses to comply.

All he can do is smile back. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did more research on dermal piercings than I'd ever expected to do for this chapter. For those of you with them, I simply say, damn.
> 
> edit: I did some art
> 
> [ art ](https://damagedpickle.tumblr.com/post/641691958874619904/again-for-my-fic-smile)


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone for such wonderful feedback on last chapter, the encouragement is really appreciated! 
> 
> I hope you all enjoy this chapter, feel free to drop suggestions or predictions in the comments if you have any :))

Despite the break in their routine during his last visit, Stark falls back on his old habits the next time he visits, taking out his phone and initiating their peculiar style of conversation. Well accustomed to the procedure, Loki begins his strange soliloquy the moment Stark gestures to him. With little else to do, confined as he is, he has had an extravagant amount of time to select a topic and refine his presentation; years of appeasing stubborn, egocentric Councilmen in Asgard has gifted him in the art of rehearsal. 

"I must say, Stark, your illustrative abilities leave much to be desired." The childish, amusing, endearing cartoons are displayed on the cell's floor, notebook open for all to see the mortal's artistic streak in action. Though he realises he has exposed himself in leaving his own portrait so boldly on display, Loki's penchant for mischief refuses to be dissuaded by his own pride. There is little chance the information of his heritage has not already spread to the rest of Earth's Mightiest, he hardly had a substantial amount to lose in revealing himself. Stark, on the other hand, was now at risk of losing any claims of artistry he may have held, and could now be subtly persuaded into gifting Loki with the ability to smile once again. "Why, it is almost insulting, the lack of attention you have given any aspect of my physique. Of course, there are the horns and the cape, but they are so cliché. Surely one as intelligent as yourself could conceive a more creative method of recreating a model than merely redrawing their clothing?"

Loki is not entirely sure what he hopes to achieve with Stark, and the thought somewhat scares him. A few days ago, he had been almost companionable with the man to feel as though he could safely request an increase in meals- whether in size or frequency, he could not care- but following his most recent lesson from the Hawk, anxiety pressed against his chest at the thought of asking even a moment of the mortal's time he did not offer freely. His monologue takes a sombre turn, a vain attempt to repress the sudden height of his nerves. "I do wonder why you come to me. Obviously, you are working towards some device concerning my words- perhaps you wish to claim Asgard's words for your own planet- but no scenario I can envision explains why you would devote such rapt attention to my meaningless words. At least when the Hawk shoves me down and pins me like a doll, I understand his motivations. Why you seem to enjoy your visits to this depressing tomb is beyond me, but I am nonetheless exceedingly grateful for your enthusiasm- more than I should be. It is pathetic, yet it is what I have been reduced to."

In a perfect example of the bizarre attention Stark insists on bestowing upon him, the man halts the conversation at its most austere with the raising of his index finger. The engineer departs the cell, but Loki inexplicably has faith he will return.

And return he does. After an absence of not even a minute, a familiar grin comes into view, attached to the body of a child holding up its newest toy. In a very un-childlike manner, however, the toy is rather what Loki suspects to be a bottle of Midgardian alcohol- possibly the same kind Stark had offered him during his disaster of an invasion. In his other hand, there is a grease-spotted paper bag, the contents of which are to Loki a complete mystery. Some form of food, if Loki was to guess. Midgardian cuisine may be one of the very, very few topics at which Thor is more well-versed.

Stark joyously exclaims something is doomed to remain ignorant to, but Loki appreciates his excitement regardless. It is puzzling to the god that in such a short period of time, Stark should become a beacon so remarkably bright amongst the shadowy backdrop of his unoccupied mind. Boredom is a dangerous experience; to leave oneself with naught but their mind always a precarious gamble. Particularly when even the shallows of one's mind are wrought with vicious perils. The fortune of Stark's unexplained demeanour is not lost on him, a gift he refuses to relinquish.

From the curious brown bag, Stark pulls two boxes, stamped with the obnoxious colours Loki has come to associate with the realm. The smell drifting from the box is intoxicating, irresistible to Loki's famished body. The Hawk drops off the occasional meal, fortunately relieving Loki of his muzzle each time should he be wearing it. He suspects Stark must have complained about the foul sandwich he had removed from Loki's cell not long passed, bemoaning the tragedy of having such a sight before his eyes, forcing the Hawk to reign in on his cruelty ever-so-slightly. Still, for his considerably advanced physique, the food is somewhat insufficient. It is enough to satisfy his body, but not his mind. He can feel himself weakening, the knife in his mind dulling. Manoeuvring the box into his hands is difficult, raising the open box for inspection even more so. With the pins in his arm, each of his movements is excruciating, his muscles stiff and infinitely tensed.

Inside the box is a salad pressed between two halves of a seeded bun. Certainly nothing remotely similar to any food Loki has sampled before, but it looks and smells appetising, so he goes ahead and takes a bite. And another. And another. And he continues eating ravenously and without pause until all he has left is the multicoloured box and the horrified expression Stark has fixed upon him.

Loki stills completely as he realises just how his devouring of the strange bread dish must have appeared to his audience. Suddenly, he is rather embarrassed, ducking his head as to avoid Stark's heavy gaze. Such a demonstration of his desperation would have never occurred on Asgard, no matter how far he might have fallen during his stint in the dungeons. His knife was not dull, but well on its way to becoming entirely blunt.

There is a tap on his shoulder, gentle and not prodding, which draws Loki's attention back to his company. Stark's disgust, shock, seemed to have somewhat dissipated, the man now offering up half of his own burger to the god. The gesture, much like Stark's entire being, confuses Loki. He cannot for the life of him understand what he has done to earn the thoughtfulness of the mortal. Part of him worries what the mortal will ask of him in return, the rest of him simply longs to repay the favour out of appreciation along. As politely as he can, he declines the helping held out to him. The other merely shrugs and takes a considerably large bite for himself. With the bread bread-salad in hand, Stark screws open the bottle off the liquor bottle, pouring a generous serving into two crystalline glasses. Taking the glass offered to him in hand proves to be even more excruciating than his attempt at eating the food. At least when he was eating, he could lower himself to the meal; now, he has to slowly, painfully, raise the glass to his lips and tilt. The beverage is a darkened amber and accompanied by a bitter-sweet aftertaste; altogether a rather pleasant experience, particularly when paired with the slight dull it brings to the ceaseless throbbing in his arms. With a second serving of the ambrosia, a confidence long missed begins to return to him.

When Stark gestures for him to resume his speech, Loki turns the tables, instead requesting with his hands the mortal gives a story of his own. With a wicked grin, he is indulged, a series of incomprehensible yet piquant tales filling his consciousness.

* * *

In an unusual twist of events, Loki finds himself joined by a second visitor before the first has departed. While he and Stark are still exchanging their lectures, the cell doors open to admit the human form of the Green Beast bearing a bundle of books beneath his arms. Stark reacts to the intrusion cheerily enough, so Loki supposes he can assume himself safe for the moment. Nonetheless, he ensures his entire frame is perched on his cot, his appearance as inoffensive as possible. At present, he lacks the death wish necessary to provoke the Beast's emergence.

After the two mortals have exchanged their greetings, the human-Beast deposits his collection of books before him. Initially, Loki is perplexed by the action; the books are written in Midgardian English, there is no possibility he is expected to read them, surely? However, upon a closer inspection, the purpose of the books becomes clear in a rush of indignation. The soft colours, remarkably large lettering, and cartoon lettering. 

Earth's Mightiest Heroes have presented him with children's books.

And not just any children's books, no. The simplistic styles of the books indicate a recommended age well below the age one would begin their study. An age surpassed by Loki a millennia before the condescending, ignorant ants before him were mere zygotes in their mother's wombs.   
Loki's ire must have seeped into his face, for Stark had begun chuckling indiscreetly while staring directly at him.

"This is completely ridiculous." At Loki's words, Stark begins to laugh louder, the human-Beast working hard to suppress a grin of his own. "I am a god, a mage renown throughout the realms; were I not so constrained, I would smite you both for this offence."

Apparently, with the language barrier between them, Loki's threats were somewhat lacklustre, inviting only continued mockery from the two Avengers before him. He could feel a pink flush spreading to his cheeks, a sudden desire to hide beneath the blanket he usually avoided at all costs. Was it not enough they taunted his ignorance, they now had to tease at his emotions too? Were it not for the decidedly human characteristics of the two beings before him, he could have been back on Asgard, facing another riveting session of verbal torment from one of the numerous courtiers who inexplicably held a vendetta against him. Unable to move his arms anymore, he could only duck his head into his legs, attempting to evade some of the shame coursing through his body.

Only a few moments passed before he felt a steadying hand placed upon his shoulder, calling him back from his mortified shell. He took a minute, and then another, to coax himself out, convince himself he had already suffered worse. They were only mortal, what harm could they truly do? He cautiously glanced up to find Stark looking down at him with concern in his eyes, all traces of mockery disappeared from his gaze. The man spoke in a placating tone words Loki could only wish he understood, before pulling up one of the cursed children's books and opening it to the first page.

The page was decorated with lush green scenery, a ripe, red apple the centrepiece of the illustrations. A strange symbol sat beside the apple, some quantity of illegible words written beneath it. Loki was completely lost to the meaning of the page, and was forced to convey as much to Stark using only his eyes- he could not shrug, his meal had exhausted all his arms had to give. Considering Loki's continued confusion, Stark thought for a minute, before taking Loki's notebook and pencils in hand again. This time, however, he wrote a vaguely familiar word in a messy scrawl, underlining it and pointing to himself.

Of course. He realised at once where he knew the word from; it was the man's surname, the one which had been plastered so obnoxiously on the side of the very tower Loki now resided in. The man had written 'Stark' and was now pointing to the third symbol within the word. Understanding dawned in both Loki's mind and eyes. The symbols were the basis for English words, similar to the strokes which made up the familiar runes of the Aesir. The book was intended to be his guide so that he might communicate with his mortal captors through written language. The idea had merit, yet would take a substantial amount of time to come into effect. After all, he remained oblivious to the actual words which made up Midgardian English, but perhaps that was the purpose of Stark's strange conversations?

Loki truly didn't know, but at least it seemed the children's books would serve some form of productive purpose. While he began flipping vacantly through the first book's pages, Stark and the human-Beast engaged themselves in a rigorous discussion. The ease at which their speech flowed between one another stirred some hollow feeling in Loki, unsettling him greatly. He should not- did not- want to converse with the mortals. He only had to communicate with them for essentials; he was their prisoner, what place was there for amenability between the parties?

As the humans said what was presumably their goodbyes, Loki felt a sinking feeling overcome him. He had to remind himself that Stark would return, would continue their peculiar conversations with his odd little recording device. Wouldn't he? The ache of the pins in his arms was only rising, an uncomfortable heat building where his skin and flesh had been so brutally pierced. If Stark returned, he might just be willing to remove the pins, relieve Loki's suffering just slightly.

No. No. He couldn't go there. The Avengers wouldn't have sent the Hawk if they did not wish anguish upon him. It was fanciful thinking, even if Stark laughed at jokes he should not have been able to comprehend. Even if Stark's grin beamed a little brighter with each visit.

Even if there was a little piece of Loki that hated to see him leave, and craved the queer mortal's return.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess who's ignoring their schoolwork?
> 
> Yeah, it's me. I've ignored it so much, I've shamelessly created art for my own fic and added it to chapters 4 and 5 if you want to go back and check it out (it's in the end notes)
> 
> Pray I do not fail my classes due to neglect.

It had once been said to Loki that a death by fire was the most painful a warrior could suffer. It had been decades, perhaps centuries, since the warning had been bestowed upon him and only now, with the Hawk's portable flame placing open-mouthed kisses at the soles of his bare feet, that he understood the statement in full. The sensation could only be described as white; the purest and most volatile form of energy. Had the muzzle not been suppressing his silver tongue, he would have been crying with agony. Already, his eyes were blurry with unshed tears, soft groans slipping past the repulsive leather bit shoved in his mouth. By his count, this visit was the Hawk's fifth solo pilgrimage, a mark of the man's determination and ingenuity. Despite the gradual numbing of his arms over the last week, and the vile smell of burning flesh emanating from his body, Loki could not find it in himself to fault the archer for his seemingly unquenchable desire for vengeance. 

No, that would have been hypocritical. Pride, envy, greed; he'd fallen victim to them all. Fallen victim to himself.

And, oh, how far he'd fallen.

Gagged and chained, bent to the twisted whims of supposedly noble men.

For the first time since his self-destructive, bitter plunge, Loki is forced to admit that he is, in fact, afraid. He is afraid of standing up, exposing his tender and damaged soles to the cold floor of his cell. He is afraid to lie down and sleep, that he would try in vain to lick his wounds as they chafed against the waistband of his pants. He is afraid to move, lest he stretch and pull the ruined skin lining the small of his back. He is afraid the rancorous mortal holding his leash might one day tilt him too precariously over the cliff's edge and let him drop into the waiting arms of Hel.

Loki valued his life too greatly to be suicidal again. Spite, as the Hawk was teaching him, was an incredibly powerful motivator, revenge the ideal incentive. 

The Hawk is moving his wondrous fire-machine towards Loki's shackled, well-clenched hands, when the cell door opened for the second time that day. The atmosphere change is almost palatable, a tense and unstable air suffocating the room's occupants. Loki, the god of such chaos, recognises its aura immediately. For a moment, it is refreshing, a nostalgic return to his more amenable memories. Then the reality of the situation catches up to him, and Loki wonders if his leash is to be passed to his latest guest. A fork in the roads, with Loki waiting in apprehension for one of the pathways to grant him entrance. He knows not when the gate or which gate will swing open for him, nor what it will lead to. He has no control over his feet, which will undoubtedly race down the first road offered. He has naught but his own breaths, each counting the seconds he awaits a decision. 

As Stark brandishes his cup in greeting, Loki notes sudden disappearance of the fire-machine from the Hawk's hand, replaced instead with an empty-handed, polite wave. Thinking back to his ruinous invasion, he recalls some mention of torture in the engineer's past, presumably the reason the archer halted in Stark's presence. The man understandably does not wish to be reminded of the demons which creeped undisturbed through his subconscious. Demons of the mind are fickle, a truth Loki knows with a disturbing familiarity. Unbidden, he lowers the blistered and burnt soles of his feet, a strange empathy flowing through him. Harming Stark's psyche will only inspire wrath, from either his teammates or the man himself. Already wincing with the smallest of movements, the last thing Loki needs to incite further violence towards him. Stark must have told Barton of Loki's heritage, how else would the man have known fire was such a weakness for him? Really, it was a shame flames wounded him so; he had once been so adept at casting them.

Stark approached the bed Loki was perched on, sending the archer towards the exit rather abruptly. Loki doesn't question it, the relief he feels at the Hawk's departure is too strong for him to risk the peace. While Stark drains the last of his beverage from the strange, cardboard cup, Loki waits expectantly for his shackles and muzzle to be removed. How is he supposed to conduct his speech without use of his mouth or tongue? Yet even once the cup seems to be empty, Stark makes no moves towards his bindings. Instead, he takes Loki by the arm, pulling him gently from the bed and onto his feet. Loki's appreciation for the muzzle and its gruesome leather bit increases a tenfold with the movement, as the bit saves him from biting through his tongue when he tormented feet become acquainted with the harsh and brittle carpet of his cell. How was it he had not noticed its dreadful coarseness before today? Each step felt as though he was stepping across a sea of the Hawk's little pins, their vicious pricking taunting him as he shuffled towards the door. 

Outside the door, he finds slight relief in the cool of the tiles, their frigid caresses a small comfort against the burning remnants of the flames across his feet. He longs to ask Stark where he is bound, secretly fearful their destination will prove to be a substantial downgrade from his cell. Is he being relocated to the Hawk's personal chambers? Perhaps the Widow is now ready for her own retribution. Likely, she has not forgotten nor forgiven him for the 'Mewling Quim' incident upon the strange Midgardian ship. Does the Green Beast need to be entertained? The questions swarm him, relentlessly buzzing at his mind, but he cannot free them. Even if he could speak, he could not get an answer. Despite its brutish and alienating methods, the Asgardian dungeons had the distinctive quality of stability and constancy. 

Would it be worth it to return? Worth the loss of his odd kinship with Stark and semi-regular meals?

His brutalised body says yes. His isolated heart says no.

* * *

Their destination is protected by a stylish set of tinted glass doors far more glamorous than the metal ones guarding Loki's own room at the tower. Responding to a series of what Loki recognises as English numbers and letters as a result of his recent readings, the doors slide open to admit the pair of them. The room appears to be Starks own smithy, sheets of metal haphazardly discarded atop of a convoluted series of counters and benches. Tools Loki assumes to be uniquely Midgardian are scattered across the room, a few particularly pointy ones lying abandoned the floor. It's chaos, and for the first time in a long time, a chaos Loki can revel in.

Working his way through the disorder of the room, Stark regales Loki with an endless stream of chatter he cannot decipher a word of. Nonetheless, the enthusiasm and excitement present in the man's voice causes his mouth to tilt upwards in something that feels suspiciously like affection. Hastily, Loki tries to banish any sort of sentiment from his heart. Not only is it foolish and reckless and stupid, it's incredibly dangerous. There is every chance Stark might turn vindictive and force his frustration and pain onto Loki. He can't risk exposing himself so clumsily. He won't. With a tremendous show of strength, he swallows his heart down from his chest and into his stomach.

While Stark rummages through a seemingly endless stream of drawers, a disembodied voice speaks to him from the ceiling, and Loki has to grip his seat tightly to keep himself from jumping at the intrusion. Stark seems unruffled by the interruption, however, replying to it as though the speaker were visible before him. Concern seems to spread across the mortal's face at the voice's words, causing the man to turn to Loki with his eyes narrowed in suspicion. Loki felt his heart palpitations spike, for once in his life absolutely sure he had done nothing to deserve the blame being pointed at him. Vainly, he tries to widen his eyes with an aura of innocence, but he feels he is unsuccessful. Strangely, Stark fails to act on his apparent suspicions, approaching Loki only to at last remove the muzzle from his stiff jaw. 

If only the pains in jaw were the worst of his aches.

A rather unique box is placed between him and Stark, a contraption of sorts covering in a metallic mesh and bright array of wires. A foreign sort of energy is radiating from it, which Loki assumes to be an abundance of Midgardian electricity, causing the hairs along his arms to rise softly. It's intriguing and enticing at the same time, significantly more pleasing than the blunt static radiated from his once-brother. No, Stark's machine has a gentle hum to it, pleasant and soft.

The engineer begins to speak again, but this time directs his speech towards the funny little contraption. As usual, the words mean nothing to him, a stream of jargon he is doomed to remain oblivious to.

That is, until the machine repeats the message in a disturbingly familiar dialect.

"How goes it, Reindeer Play?"

Loki cannot help it, his jaw drops and his eyes widen of their own accord. He suspects the translation has come across rather awkwardly, but the sentiment is still strong in the mortal's message. "Stark, what have you done?"

The machine spits his words back out in English and Stark grins from ear to ear. "Solution all our problems, that's what I've done!" The phrasing isn't perfect, the machine's voice has a rather clumsy pronunciation, but for all intents and purposes Loki admits that yes, Stark has indeed torn down the wall between them. "Intercourse yes! This the reason why individuals call me a genius."

At least, for the most part.

Still, Loki can't help but grin as wide as Stark when he realises he no longer has to beg in silence for mercy. He can scream, plead, barter. The satisfying, soothing pull of control rushes back to him.

"Thank you, Stark. Know I say this sincerely, that I am in your debt."

He doesn't know how well it translates, all he knows is that Stark offers his signature smirk in return, before leaning in and embracing Loki familiarly.

Loki thinks it's hope, the feeling growing in the heart he tried to buried.


End file.
